Gregor's patience, long eroded by days of stalemated tension, dwindling supplies, and a prince who refused to charge finally gave up its last ghost. His voice cracked the heavy air like a whip.
"Your... Grace," he spat the honorific like a curse, "spare us your theatrics. Did you summon us here simply to preen like a cock before the slaughterhouse? Or is there some actual purpose to this farce?"
The other rebel lords stiffened as if struck, their collective intake of breath sharp enough to draw blood. Even the horses seemed to tense beneath them, ears flattening at the sudden venom in the air.
Alpheo turned his head with deliberate slowness, the movement of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere left to run. The dying sunlight caught the gilding on his armor, setting him aglow like some avenging spirit as his lips curled into a smile that never touched his eyes.
